The reply wasn’t satisfactory. “ASSUMING NO MOLE HAD ACCESS, NO.”
The mole. He’d assumed that Claire was the mole, albeit an unintentional one. If she wasn’t, and someone else was, a phone could have been planted. His phone buzzed with a message from Karen. “GET OUT OF THERE.”
Keith powered off his phone, backed up, and turned around. The Jeep, despite its design, fishtailed several times as he whipped around corners and flew over the rutted road. He drove into the garage, closed the door, and reached under the seat. His Beretta was strapped to the undercarriage. He couldn’t risk a tranquilizer this time. Not this time.
With the gun out and ready, he ran for the house. Nothing indicated anyone had arrived. The tire tracks, ‘copter markings, footprints. There was too much to be sure, but he did take a cleansing breath as instinct took over; the house would be empty. Even so, he took every precaution as he opened the door, crossed to the other side, listened, and then swept the house. Empty.
He had to work quickly. As much as Keith wanted to call and see how long Mike had been alone, he couldn’t risk it. His disregard for orders already put him at risk for being fired. If he failed, there was no doubt. He’d be out. Regardless, he had to do it. His job required that he make rogue decisions if the situation warranted it, but if he botched it, the Agency couldn’t support him.
Just as he decided to give up and leave, he found it. A basic pre-paid cell phone, sprayed a bland tan, had been velcroed to the back of the ancient fiberglass drapes, up near the hooks. If you weren’t looking for it, you’d never find it. As it was, even with his thorough search, he nearly missed it.
He nearly grabbed it without thinking, but training kicked in before he blew it. Using the hem of the drapes, he pulled the phone from the fabric and gingerly flipped the phone open. There was only one message. “HERE. WILL NOTIFY WHEN CLEAR.”
Great. Was there a code? It didn’t seem like it. After all, he’d promised to “notify.” Banking on the improbability, he glanced around, looking for anything that might work to punch buttons. The chance that he’d avoid destroying fingerprints was slim to none, but he had to risk it. At last, he found a crayon half under the couch. That’d work.
Nerves nearly overtook him as he tried to come up with a plausible notification. It’d been so long already. He couldn’t wait much longer without looking suspect. Desperate, and then ashamed that it took desperation to send him to it, he prayed, begging God for the wisdom to know exactly what to do. He reread the text message. Clear. The guy used clear. Either he was a professional with possible military training, or he was a wannabe. Either way, it was best to go that route… wasn’t it?
Taking a deep breath and shooting up another prayer, he took the crayon and punched his reply. “CLEAR. REQUIRE EXTRACTION. N 39.339069 and W -120.535208.”
He had to protect the phone and make sure it could be found if he failed. That thought alone made his mouth go dry. It was always a possibility. When you protect people for a living, you know your life is in constant jeopardy. It’s an odd combination of “the job” and slight insanity. No matter how often he faced danger, Keith never became immune to it.
In the bathroom, under the sink, a plastic wrapper over the toilet paper gave him the protection he wanted. He tore the remaining rolls from the packaging, tucked the phone in the corner, and rolled it completely into the plastic. A glance at his watch told him to hurry. He didn’t know how far out Mike’s backup was, but he had to get the phone to safety and then call Karen.
His first instinct was to cross the road and jog down a ways, but he resisted. Instead, he found a snake hole near the garage, stuffed the phone inside it, covered it with a rock, and snapped a picture of it, of the garage from where he stood, and then another one from the garage. With those three for reference, he took a branch from a creosote, pounded the sand with it to remove his footprints, and then tossed it back inside the bush.
Once the pictures were sent, he called Karen. “Ok, from the northeast corner of the garage, walk straight to the second creosote and Mike’s cell will be in the hole there. Be careful. It’s possible I used a snake hole with a live one in it.”
“Keith, why are you calling me?” Karen’s voice sounded stunned.
“Because I know you’re not the mole. I’ve got to get off and be ready.”
“Is it Mark?”
Keith’s eyes closed as he absorbed the question he’d tried not to ask himself. “I hope not, Karen. I really hope not.”
It was nearly dawn and Keith still waited—waited for a rescue team that might never arrive. His mind replayed various scenarios, trying to make the best decision, until he thought he’d go crazy from lack of sleep and indecision. Staying meant possibly taking out whoever was out to get him. That, clearly, was important. However, every minute that passed was one minute further from discovering if Mike’s cohort had left any traces of anything on that phone. The longer he waited, the more likely the mole would spook and run. Sure, they’d discover who it was, but the chances of capturing him became next to impossible.
At last, he decided. Ten o’clock was the cutoff. If no one came by then, he’d leave. Much later than that, and he’d be unable to drive long enough to be able to get a room and sleep. He needed to ditch the Jeep, but the replacement vehicle forty minutes away wouldn’t be safe. Not now. There might not be enough time, but he had to see if Karen could provide something.
“Hey, need a replacement. Something loud and flashy. Kernville.”
“Can do. I’ll send an address where to park the Jeep. Take the car in the driveway to the park and swap out there. Yellow mustang or Red Jag?”
“Mustang.”
“John figured out that he was in danger. He’s now appreciative that we separated him from his family.”
Keith smiled to himself. This was good. “How’d he come to that conclusion?”
“He said that we wouldn’t have used the discretionary clause for a drill.”
“Is he any closer?”
“Well, we could use that hacker.” She sounded tired. That wasn’t good.
“And have you heard from Claire and Brian?”
“I think Brian is ready to kill Claire, but don’t worry.”
“Why not?” He could almost guess the answer.
“The feeling is mutual.”
“Ok, I’m getting off here. I see dust in the air. Probably just a motorcyclist, but you never know.”
“Tranq anyone who comes near the house and run. Got it? Don’t risk anything. If they pause near the house, you tranq them and go.”
“Yes ma’am.” He started to hang up but her voice stopped him.
“And Keith?”
“Yeah?”
“If you get yourself killed, I am not coming to your funeral. Got it?”
Keith laughed as his finger hovered over the power button. “Got it.”
Chapter Twenty-Two
John tapped away on his computer, seemingly oblivious to the battle of wills taking place around him. Mike refused to speak, driving Keith crazy; however, no one but Karen knew it. As the morning passed, they watched him, each waiting for some kind of indication as to what move to make. The phone had revealed only Mike’s prints—something that didn’t surprise any of them.
After three days of observation, it was clear. Mike was an amateur at best. He either owed someone something, or he had tried to break into a business he wasn’t suited for; regardless, his reticence actually to kill someone had likely saved John’s life. As distasteful as it was, Keith had to play on that knowledge. His eyes sent Karen a warning signal, and then he began his game.
“That’s it. If he won’t talk voluntarily, we’ll have to make him talk.”
“What are you talking about?” Karen played her part well. She gave Keith a look that clearly said, “Are you nuts?” and shook her head. “You can’t do that, and you know it.”
“Sure I can. If we were government, no way. But, since we’re not, I’m not play
ing this game anymore. He came after me, and I want to know why.”
“Mark’ll be ticked,” she warned. Karen gave a brilliant performance. Keith could almost see the uncertainty oozing from her.
“Let him. We’re stuck here waiting to find out what happens when this guy doesn’t return. The guys who came for him are dead, so we make him talk.”
“Dead! No one told me anything about them being dead!”
“Well, you didn’t need to know, did you?” Keith swallowed the rest of his coffee in one gulp and slammed the cup on the counter. “Ok, let’s get this over with. It’s simple; I’ll start with a simple punch. You’ll get thirty seconds between punches to reconsider. It’ll give my fists a break too.” He flexed his muscles for effect. “Got a favorite side?”
“You’re sick.”
For a moment, he hesitated. The idea of pummeling anyone for any reason was particularly distasteful to him—he was more of a “turn ‘em over to law enforcement” type. However, if this was what it took, he’d do it. His fist slammed into Mike’s cheek. “Clock it, Karen. I might count too fast if I do it myself.”
Despite his inner turmoil—prayers flying heavenward faster than he could mentally articulate them—and the throbbing he could feel starting in his hand already, Keith looked completely relaxed and unaffected by the punch. As he waited, his hands resting on his hips, Karen called out the time in decreasing five-second intervals. “Fifteen.”
“Man, this drags.”
“Ten.”
At five, Keith wriggled his fingers, balled up his fist, and flexed for effect. He hoped for a last second capitulation, but it didn’t come. Karen announced, almost as if bored, “Time.”
Keith’s fist hit Mike’s jaw this time. Anyone watching would assume that he held nothing back, but he’d given the swing no more than half-force. The back of Keith’s mouth tasted like bile. He hated this kind of thing. If it didn’t mean possible danger for his cousin, he probably would have been willing to risk someone else coming for him, but Claire was another story. “Clock it.”
At twenty, Mike began to perspire. At fifteen, he whimpered. By ten he looked ready to pass out from sheer fear, and at five he shook his head. “Don’t. Really. No one is worth it.” The man looked around Keith and shuddered. “This guy is a freak. Talk about heartless.”
“Yeah, whatever.” Karen didn’t sound nearly as sympathetic as Mike obviously hoped.
“Start talkin’ Mikey. You’ve got thirty seconds to convince me that I don’t need to take another swing.” Out of the corner of his eye, Keith saw Karen stifle a snicker and hesitated. Did he need to cover for her, or did Mike miss the assault on his overly dramatic threat. Yeah, it was cheesy, but from where he was standing, it looked like it had worked.
“I don’t know much. I was supposed to get in there, take you out, and then go to the next one.”
“Who is the next one?”
“Erika somethingski.”
“Who sent you?”
“I owed a guy. He said I could pay him off this way or work it off—” Mike swallowed. “The guy’s a creep, ok? Don’t ever get in business with a creep. They’ll totally—”
“Got it. Who’s the guy?”
“I don’t know his name. These people don’t just hand out their business cards if you know what I mean.”
“Where?” Keith was unaware at how his entire body tensed as he asked.
“Columbus.”
Keith and Karen’s eyes met briefly, until Keith dug his hands into his pocket for his keys. “Trade. I can’t take that thing to the airport.”
With Karen’s keys in hand, Keith grabbed his duffel, tossed his toothbrush in it, and waved goodbye to John. “Get those documents fast.”
“Almost there. I’m just working on off shore account numbers now and I’ll be done.”
“Good. Karen, have Claire go to her original destination when John’s done and tell her not to come back until I tell her. Go with her.”
Fury nearly blinded her as, once again, Erika bounced on Keith’s shoulder across the back yard, through the alley, and into the same garage as the last time. She wanted to scream at him—demand that he rip the tape from her mouth and untie her. What was the point? She got it now. Obviously, the danger wasn’t past yet. She’d been saved by the “Agency” once, and she was grateful enough not to refuse help when it came again.
His eyes met hers as he laid her on the floor behind his seat—again. She tried, with every ounce of emotion she could infused into her features, to show him that she wasn’t going to resist, but he shook his head. “Not now, Erika. Trust me.”
As the van door slid shut, she could have sworn she heard him chuckle. So, her irritation amused him. Great. And how did he plan to explain her absence this time? It seemed ridiculous to assume that she could keep disappearing for weeks at a time without someone considering it unusual.
The driver’s door shut and the same stupid eighties radio station blared overly synthesized music into the vehicle. “Sorry, Erika, you can’t assume someone will wake up enough not to overreact. I just found out that you’re a target, so I came. I don’t know where we’re going yet or even if I’ll tell anyone.”
She heard something in his voice that she’d never noticed in the weeks she’d spent with him—fear, raw fear. Someone was after her; she’d seen it on the coast of Oregon, but then, he’d been confident. He’d been alert, cautious, even had a healthy fear of the consequences of bad decisions, but it was nothing like this. This wasn’t the quiet, irritated Keith that had shot a man and then fought and shot another as just part of his job. This Keith was talkative and scared.
The myriad of questions that flooded her mind nearly drowned out his next words. “When we get to where I can pull off the road, I’ll remove the tape, but it’s going to hurt.”
There—it was back. That was the tone she was accustomed to hearing. There was a comfort in hearing the warning and the authority in him again. Maybe he was just tired and she’d misread him. Maybe she was wrong.
“So, you probably want to know why I’m here? I’ll take that thump as a yes.” His chattiness felt awkward—forced. The uncertainty she’d stuffed down returned. This was bad—possibly worse—than the last time, and the last time had nearly gotten her killed. “Someone infiltrated my last assignment. It took us a while, but we finally got him to tell us what he was after—sort of. You were next. That’s all I know.”
It might be all he knew, but Erika knew there must be more to the story. She heard something in his voice, and she didn’t like it. That voice spoke volumes with each word, but it seemed to use an unfamiliar language. She’d have to wait until he took off the tape. She frowned, the tape stretching and pulling from the sides of her cheek painfully. Why would he take off the tape before they got somewhere? That would be an absolute violation of every protocol they ever used, and she knew it.
Wherever they were going, it wasn’t back to the cabins. Of course, it’d be a little silly to take the same person back to a place they had been forced to leave. Obviously, the wrong people knew about it—or at least potentially did. She waited for him to tell her where they might go, but he didn’t. Erika desperately wanted to be able to ask, but when he pulled the van over and crawled between the seats to remove the duct tape, she turned her head away from him.
“What?”
Erika whipped her head back and glared. He reached for the tape, but she jerked away again, shaking her head. “I don’t get it. Don’t you want that off?” She shook again. “Now you get all funny about the pain of the tape.” She could only hope her face showed the absolute disgust she felt at those words. “Then what?”
With one last jerk of her head toward the driver’s seat, Erika rolled away from him, hoping she’d made the right decision. The Keith Auger who had been her “protector” the first time would see her actions as proof of trust. With this Keith, who knew?
The drive seemed endless. She regretted her rash decision to stay
a gagged prisoner. How stupid was that? Twice they stopped for gas, but after the second time, Keith’s entire demeanor changed. He climbed back in the van, started it up, and pulled out onto the highway as if on auto pilot. “Ok, we’re not far.” He took a sip of water before he continued. “Look, Erika, this one’s going to be worse for you—I think. I doubt you can leave; it’s just an RV so it’s tiny, and we’ll be taking Navy showers so that it doesn’t look like I’m using more water than a single guy normally would. I have to make it look like you’re not even there when anyone from the park is around. I’m sorry, but it’s the best place I can come up with.”
Apologetic—not courtesy driven, but truly sorry for his decision—a new side of him. Erika didn’t think she liked it. Confident, while irritating, comforted in a strange sort of way.
They arrived within minutes of the gas station. That was good. If Keith had completely freaked out, she could always try to escape and walk to the station. The van turned left onto an asphalt parking lot. He had chosen to bring her some place that public? It seemed odd—almost dangerous.
The van pulled off the pavement onto a dirt road of some kind and then stopped several hundred yards away. Keith hurried from the vehicle, and Erika waited for the door to open, but it didn’t. There were faint scratching sounds outside, but she couldn’t quite make sense of them. After what seemed like an hour, but common sense assured her was only ten or fifteen minutes, the door opened and Keith beckoned her to scoot closer. “I’ll take the ropes off here,” he whispered.
The moment he freed her hands, while he untied her feet, Erika whipped off the duct tape and hissed, “Are you insane? Get me in there!”
He retrieved her bag and his from the front seat and followed her into the RV. As she fumbled for a light, he grabbed her hand. “No lights,” he whispered. “There can’t be two silhouettes.”
Justified Means (Book One) (The Agency Files) Page 17